Chapter 20
Finn
We’d been closed for twenty minutes. I’d just wiped down the bar when Mark slid onto a barstool across from me, two beers in hand. He set one down in front of me like he was presenting a trophy.
“Drink,” he said.
“It’s Thursday. We open again in eighteen hours.”
“Drink anyway. We’re celebrating.”
I picked up the beer—one of Rod’s craft selections, something local and hoppy that I’d been too busy to taste all week—and took a sip. “What are we celebrating? The fact that we survived another night without burning the place down?”
“Better.” Mark pulled out his phone and opened the spreadsheet we’d been updating all week. “Look at this.”
Revenue from Sunday’s watch party: $2,847.
Monday (regular night): $567.
Tuesday (regular night): $612.
Wednesday’s Lightning game: $1,923.
Total: $5,949.
I stared at the number.
“That’s . . .” I couldn’t quite form words. “Is that gross or net? That’s more than our monthly rent.”
“That’s net, baby! And yes, it’s more than our monthly rent.” Mark was grinning like he’d just won the lottery. “Finn, we did it. We’re only one week into this thing and we’ve covered our base operating costs for the entire month. Everything from here on out is profit.”
“That can’t be right. You’re not counting salaries or cost of goods or—”
“Yeah, yeah. We have other costs, but Ybor rent is the big nut.”
I grunted and smirked. “You said ‘nut,’” I giggled into my beer.
“Oh, shut it, you prepubescent horndog.”
“Cock. Kettle. Black.”
He grinned and shook his head. “I’m pretty sure that’s not how that phrase goes.”
I shrugged. “We’re in Ybor. Anything can happen here.” I took another sip of beer because I needed something to do with my hands. “We made almost six thousand dollars in four days.”
“We made almost six thousand dollars in four days,” Mark confirmed. “And it’s Thursday. We’ve got Friday and Saturday ahead of us, which should be our best nights. Plus another watch party on Sunday. Horny Rivals has six more episodes, and the hockey season lasts an eternity.”
“This is insane.”
“This is amazing.” Mark clinked his beer against mine. “We’re going to make it, kiddo. We’re going to make it.”
Something warm and overwhelming settled in my chest. Relief, maybe, and definitely a dose of pride. I’d never known that bone-deep satisfaction of working yourself to exhaustion for something and watching it succeed.
But I did now.
“We need to keep the momentum going,” I said, my brain already shifting into planning mode. “Sunday’s watch party worked. Wednesday’s worked. We should do both every week. Lock them in as regular events.”
“When do the Lightning play again?”
I grabbed my phone and pulled up the team’s website. “Holy shit, they play almost every day of the week. Do hockey players ever sleep?”
“I don’t think sleeping is what the guys in here think about when they watch hockey.”
“Right,” I said through a chuckle. “Do we make a big deal out of every game? Or just home games? Or big rivalries? We don’t want to wear it out, ya know?”
“Hm, good point. Why don’t we promote away games hard but still show home games for those who don’t have tickets?”
I grabbed a cocktail napkin and scribbled a note.
“What were the other ideas we came up with? Theme nights? We talked about drag bingo—”
“Maya found a queen who’s interested. Lady Voltage, pronounced ‘volt-ahj.’”
“How fancy.”
“She’s local, does a bunch of shows in Ybor. Maya said she’d be willing to do bingo the first Saturday of every month.”
“That could work.” I was mentally calculating. “We’d need supplies. Bingo cards, prizes—”
“Already on it. Maya’s handling the details.”
“Of course she is.” I took another sip. “What about Friday nights? We need something consistent. Karaoke? Trivia?”
“Trivia could be good. Make it competitive, give prizes to the winning team. Maybe do a leaderboard with a grand prize every quarter or at year-end?”
“I like that. Like a league.” I grabbed another napkin and continued making notes. “Every Friday. We’d need someone to host—”
“Jacks would be great at that. Kid’s got personality for days.”
“Jacks is barely keeping up as a barback. If we’re adding more events, we’re going to need—”
My phone chimed. I glanced at it reflexively, expecting Rod or maybe Priya asking when I’d be home.
Chase: Is it weird that I’m thinking about your tostones?
I felt my face do something stupid, something that involved smiling like an idiot.
“Who’s that?” Mark asked, leaning over to look.
“No one.” I pulled the phone closer. “Just—a customer.”
“A customer with a law degree, perhaps? One who makes you smile like—”
“I’m not smiling—”
“You’re showing more teeth than a great white.”
Rather than engage further—because I knew I was on thin ice and Mark would love nothing more than to shove me through—I ignored my bestie and typed on my phone.
Me: Thinking about my tostones? Should I be flattered or prepping my sexual harassment case?
Chase: OMG. Did you just make a sexy joke about my growling stomach?
Me: I don’t think that was the body part making those noises.
Chase: If your . . . body part . . . makes noises, I’m scared.
Mark watched me, smirk on his lips, as I slapped my face and laughed.
Chase: Back to food. Daydreaming about tostones isn’t weird.
Me: Oh, no. It is. It’s very concerning. You might need professional help.
Chase: I’m a lawyer. I am professional help.
Chase: Just not the food addiction kind.
I was definitely smiling now.
“It’s him, isn’t it?” Mark was practically vibrating with excitement. “It’s the hot lawyer.”
“His name is Chase.”
“I know his name. I took his order, remember? And now you’re texting him.” Mark made a grab for my phone. “What’s he saying?”
“Nothing—Mark, don’t—”
But Mark was faster and taller and had zero respect for personal boundaries. He snatched the phone out of my hand and held it above his head like we were twelve years old and fighting over a toy.
“‘I’m a lawyer. I am professional help,’” Mark read aloud, his voice taking on an exaggerated formal tone. “Oh my God, he’s punning. He likes you so much he’s making terrible puns. Aren’t you two just the cutest thing?”
“Give me my phone—”
“He’s funny and clever. I like him.” Mark scrolled up, reading earlier messages. “Oh, this is good. This is very good. You’ve been texting?”
“Mark, I swear to God—”
“‘The Penalty Box was incredible,’” Mark read. “‘Almost as incredible as the bartender who recommended it.’ Finn! He called you incredible!”
My face was on fire. “That’s not—he was talking about Rod’s food—”
“He was absolutely not talking about Rod’s food.” Mark handed back my phone, glaring like he’d just uncovered state secrets. “You need to ask him out.”
“I’m not asking him out—”
“Why not?”
“Because—” I gestured helplessly. “Because the last time I tried dating it was a disaster. Because I barely have time to sleep, let alone date someone—”
My phone chimed again.
Chase: So when’s your next night off?
Chase: Asking for a friend.
Chase: The friend is me. I’m asking for me.
I stared at the screen.
Mark, reading over my shoulder because he was terrible, let out a whoop. “He’s asking you out! Get it!”
“I don’t have a night off—”
“You make the schedule. You can have any night off you want.”
“I can’t just make a night off. We’re open seven days a week. Someone has to bartend—”
“So we hire someone.”
I looked up at him. “What?”
“Not just for your dating life. We need to hire another bartender anyway.” Mark said it like it was the most obvious thing in the world.
“Finn, we just established we’re profitable.
At the very least, we’re off to a great start.
We can afford to hire another bartender, and if we don’t, neither of us is ever going to have a night off. ”
“We’ve only been open a week—”
“A great week. A very successful week.” Mark leaned against the bar. “Look, I love what we’re building, but I don’t want this to be our entire lives. You deserve a night off. Hell, so do I. You deserve to go on a date with the guy who’s thinking about tostones at 10 p.m. on a Thursday.”
“What if we hire someone and it doesn’t work out? What if business slows down and we can’t afford the extra payroll?”
“Then we adjust.” Mark gestured around the bar. “You’ve worked every single day since we dreamed up this place. You’re exhausted. Jacks is great, but he can’t bartend. Rod can’t leave the kitchen. I can only cover so much before I look as worn out as you. We need another person behind this bar.”
“I don’t—”
“Your eye bags have bags of their own, man-child.”
I sputtered, unsure whether to object about hiring a new bartender or be offended he’d just insulted my eyes. Or their bags. Or their bags’ bags.
But he wasn’t wrong.
I’d been so focused on surviving our opening and first week that I hadn’t thought past it. I hadn’t considered what sustainability looked like or let myself imagine a future that included having a life outside of Barbacks.
But Chase was asking me out.
And I wanted to say yes.
My phone chimed again.
Chase: No pressure. I know you’re busy, but if you ever have a night off and want to grab coffee or dinner or just . . . maybe let me serve you food instead of the other way around?
Something in my chest squeezed. He wanted to cook for me?
“He’s sweet,” Mark said, reading over my shoulder again but this time without the teasing. “He’s really sweet, Finn.”
“I know.”
“So what are you going to tell him?”
I looked at the text, looked at Mark. Then looked around the bar that we’d built from nothing in less than a month.
We’d done the impossible. We’d made it work. Maybe it was time to trust that we could keep making it work, even if that meant letting go of control just a little.
“I’m going to tell him I need to hire someone first,” I said. “But then I’d like to take him up on that coffee.”
Mark’s grin was blinding. “Now we’re talking. I’ll call Maya in the morning and have her post a job listing. We can do interviews this weekend.”
“This weekend is going to be insane. Friday night, Saturday night, Sunday watch party—”
“Which is why we need help.” Mark stood and grabbed our empty beer bottles. “Trust me on this. We can handle bringing someone else in. You deserve that night off.”
“When did you become the reasonable one?”
“Someone has to be, and you’re too busy having a crisis to do it yourself.”
I looked down at my phone.
Me: I’d really like that. Coffee. Or dinner. Or whatever.
Me: Give me a week to figure out staffing, then I’m all yours.
Chase: All mine? Careful what you ask for.
Me: Oh, God. I just meant for a date or coffee.
Chase: Oh, I wrote it down. We make notes of calls, you know.
Chase: Just teasing. I can wait a week.
Chase: It’ll be worth it for the bartender who makes mediocre beer seem incredible.
Me: Our beer selection is not that mediocre.
Chase: Prove it. Take me out and let me try more.
Me: That’s just you asking me to take you to other bars.
Chase: Or you could just take me here on your night off. Give me a private tasting. Very exclusive.
Me: Are you flirting with me using beer as a metaphor?
Chase: Is it working?
Me: Maybe.
Chase: I’ll take maybe. See you soon, Finn.
I set my phone down on the bar and looked at Mark, who was watching me with that insufferable knowing expression.
“So,” Mark said. “Hiring a bartender.”
“Hiring a bartender,” I agreed.
“And going on a date with a hot lawyer who makes puns about wet dreams involving your tostones.”
“There were no dreams! Don’t you start—”
“Too late. Already started.” Mark pulled out his own phone. “I’m texting Priya. She’ll want to know about this.”
“Mark—”
“She’s going to find out anyway. Might as well be from me. This way we can collude properly.”
He was already typing. I could have stopped him. God knows, I should have stopped him.
But honestly? I was too busy staring at my phone, at the text chain with Chase.
“Make a note,” Mark said, still typing. “Post bartender job opening tomorrow. Schedule interviews for Saturday. If we can find someone sooner, you can get laid sooner.”
I ignored his jab and grabbed my napkin-turned-notepad and wrote:
Post job opening.
Interviews Saturday.
See Chase again.
Don’t panic.